by William Cracraft
October 7, 2002
The Squeeze
At 37, I figured I was going to be a bachelor all my life. Statistically, things didn't look good and the smart move seemed to be to develop some new hobbies. I was already fencing two nights a week, but the sport had proved a dry hole in terms of romance and I had tried just about everything else.
I had tried personal ads and I pestered my friends to fix me up. I went to clubs, the opera, and the Black and White Ball. I dated peoples' sisters and friends of friends. I went on a blind date every year or so to remind me not to go on blind dates. Over the years I had a few near misses.
I started thinking about my dating pattern and noticed my last three girlfriends had been progressively closer to my ideal. I figured that was a good thing-unless I had set an impossible standard, which meant that I should adjust my standards, which seemed like a compromise.
I didn't think my standards were out of control, so no to compromise and yes to eternal bachelorhood. By 1997, three years after my last relationship ended, I was tired of the whole mess. I was trying to forge a career as a freelance writer, I had fencing to keep me active, and a couple of old British sports cars to keep me from becoming complacent.
Never having known the bliss of marriage, I didn't miss it, but I was saddened by the thought of never becoming a father. It was the New Year, and when I walked into my club one night in January, I knew right away there was a new girl on the floor, but I went about my business.
There had been plenty of women through the salle in the 15 years I'd been fencing, but my fencing club is a refuge, the one place I can focus on myself. Besides, the few available women who had come to the club had ended up with the coach or one of the stud fencers. When the new woman took off her mask, my cynicism was rewarded: she was at least ten years younger than me.
She was slender, though, and had a nice face. I went about my business, heard she was German and was introduced at some point. We didn't talk-matter of fact, she didn't talk much to anyone, so I figured her English was weak. As the evening drew to a close, having four sisters, I took an interest in how she was getting home. I knew her Muni route would take her through a rough neighborhood so I offered her a ride.
I didn't have one of my prized British cars that night. The Triumph was in
the paint shop and the XK140 was up on pegs, halfway through a brake job. I
was driving a borrowed Toyota. She was ten years younger than me, in
town for only three months and didn't seem to speak much English. I could dump
her at her apartment and be home in time for The Simpsons. She answered my polite
questions about herself with a word or two.
I missed a turn and we ended up at the dead end near Bryant Street, a block from her apartment. Neither of us remembers the topic, but I made some crack and she turned it back on me with a smart-aleck comment. She said later she knew I thought she was either dumb or had lame English, and figured it was about time to disabuse me of those notions. It was one of those moments I'll remember forever. Surprised, I turned my head to look at her, and the moment snapped into focus. Our eyes locked and, through her challenge and my cynicism, we seemed to absorb something of each other.